


Earth Shattering

by Galadriel1010



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Caring Mycroft Holmes, Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, Protective Greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:48:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26612473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel1010/pseuds/Galadriel1010
Summary: Following the explosion at Baker Street, Mycroft Holmes is rushed to hospital in a critical condition. Greg's world falls apart and is put back together in a consulting room.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 22
Kudos: 150





	Earth Shattering

**Author's Note:**

> Mycroft was believed to be in hospital, unconscious, no one even sure if he was going to pull through. I had to make sure Greg knew better.

It’s a perfectly ordinary Monday morning. London is just beginning to unsnarl itself from the morning’s rush hour, people are settling down at their desks with mugs of tea, and Greg Lestrade is trying to concentrate more on his bulging inbox than on the fact that he’d spent the previous night alone, again. It isn’t unusual, especially when Mycroft got in one of these moods, but it’s… He sighs. It is what it is, to borrow a phrase he’s heard all too often recently. He considers sending his whatever-Mycroft-is a text, doesn’t bother because Mycroft won’t reply.

Then there’s the sudden rush in the bullpen. The frantic grabbing at coats and bags, the press towards the incident rooms, and Sally is in his doorway. “Boss, it’s another bomb. Just detonated.”

“Where?” he asks, even though he can tell from her face.

“Baker Street. Usual suspects.” He’s already on his feet and halfway to the door. “Witnesses say two men jumped from the first-floor window.”

He pulls his coat on as he runs, passing people who know well enough to get out of his way. “Sherlock and John?”

“Don’t know yet but knowing them… probably.”

They join the briefing just long enough for the super to dispatch them to the scene, so he can pretend it was his idea. Greg’s phone is going mad with texts and calls, but he ignores them all so that Mycroft can get through when he needs to. They’re caught in the traffic caused by the explosion when the sick feeling of worry starts to really settle in. He finds himself reaching for his phone every time it rings, until Sally slaps it into his hand and tells him to hang the rules and call.

Mycroft doesn’t either answer or cut the call off. It just rings out and clicks off, because Mycroft Holmes doesn’t need a voicemail. If he wants to speak to you, he will. If he doesn’t… Greg drops his phone back into the centre console and his head back against the headrest. “Fine.”

“Who are you trying to call?”

He glances at her, weighs the truth in his mouth. “Sherlock’s brother. He’ll want to coordinate.”

“Apparently not.”

They crawl on. The radio has been almost non-stop since they got into the car, he’s long since tuned it out, but this time something grabs his attention and he reaches to turn it up. Two ambulances are leaving Baker Street, full blues and twos heading for A&E. One female victim in her seventies with serious but not life-threatening injuries. One male in his forties, condition critical. His world shatters and his knuckles go white on the steering wheel. “Shit,” he growls. “Fuck, not… not now.”

“Boss?” Sally asks.

He wrenches the handbrake on and the door open. “Get to the scene and concentrate on finding out what the hell happened to Sherlock and John.”

“Where are you going?”

“The hospital.” He swallows back more than he can handle. “I… I need to get there.”

Sally catches up with him and shoves him back towards the car. “Get in, put the lights on. I’ll drive.” They throw themselves back into the car and pull a very illegal manoeuvre to head back the other way and then down a side street. “I’m not asking. But I’m here if you need me, Greg.”

He doesn’t thank her, can’t because if he tries to speak again, he might scream. It should only take five minutes to get to the A&E at the University College Hospital, but that’s in good traffic and this is not good traffic, and Greg is crumbling so every second takes an age. Finally he’s stumbling from the car at the entrance, hurrying to the desk and still trying to work out what he’s going to say. He flashes his warrant card, because that never hurts, and tries not to look as desperate as he feels. “DI Lestrade,” he says quickly. “Two patients were brought in from the Baker Street explosion.”

She looks surprised, and familiar. He’s not exactly a stranger to this ward, but he’s not in a condition to wrack his memory just now. Instead he relies on her to make the connections, and is relieved when she does and calls her colleague over to cover her, emerges from behind the desk. “Right this way, Inspector. You got here very quickly.”

The implications of that comment won’t hit him until much later. He just follows her down the corridor to one of the consultation rooms and, when she opens the door for him and gestures him in, enters ahead of her. He’s about to ask so many things, each of them jostling for priority behind the one he wants to ask but can’t, when he realises what he’s seeing. Mycroft is frozen in place, still setting up his temporary office, and staring at Greg. He straightens up just in time, rounds the desk to meet Greg halfway, and then he’s wrapping Greg in his arms, not flinching at a grip so tight it must be painful even if he wasn’t injured in the explosion. Greg clings to him, realises how badly he’s shaking in Mycroft’s arms, buries his face in Mycroft’s shoulder. “I thought…”

“I know, and I’m sorry,” Mycroft whispers. Long fingers tangle in Greg’s hair and press him close, clutch in his shirt. “I’m fine, I promise.”

“We got word on the radio. They said you were critical.”

Mycroft’s grip gets somehow tighter. “I’m sorry. The deception was not intended for you in the slightest.”

He clings to that. He’s known since this started, shrouded in secrecy, that if anything were to happen to Mycroft there is no one, save perhaps Sherlock, who would know to break the news to him gently. And when Sherlock is his best hope of compassion, he’d almost rather take the Twitter trend. But to grieve him in secret and then find out it was a lie would be a cruelty too far.

As always Mycroft seems to read his mind, because he eases Greg back so they can look at each other. His hands stay on Greg though, one on his waist and one on his upper arm, still holding on tightly. “I had to see you before I left. You had to see me. Where we’re going, I cannot promise I will return, but I promise that I will do everything within my power to do so.” He lifts one hand to cup Greg’s face and stroke a thumb across his cheek gently. “If I do not return, I will no longer be a threat to your safety, you can mourn me as you need to. And if I do, I swear that things are going to be different.”

He closes his eyes tight against the sting of tears. Mycroft understands the human need for a comforting lie, can use it to his advantage skilfully, but he respects those who can take the honest truth. Most of the time Greg is one of them, but he could have done with a little deceit today. But Mycroft also recognises without relating to the need for comfort through contact, and his hand is still warm against Greg’s cheek, the other pulling him closer again, and that’s a compromise Greg can live with.

“I love you,” he says, because Mycroft appreciates hearing the truth as well as being able to deliver it. “I don’t want to have loved you in secret and mourned you in public.”

“Then I had better return.” He opens his eyes and finds only sincerity in Mycroft’s. “I love you too, Gregory. You are not alone in wanting more than we have been afforded.”

Mycroft Holmes also doesn’t go in for romantic schmaltzy declarations. He just states the truth, whether you want to hear it or not. Fortunately, that was what Greg wanted to hear most in the world. He pulls Mycroft closed and kisses him gently. “Thank you for letting me know you’re safe.”

“I had intended to summon you somehow. I had not factored in the unusual clarity of the paramedics’ messaging. Still, at least no one will be in any doubt as to my whereabouts.”

Greg nods, allowed himself one more moment as Mycroft’s lover before he reminds himself that he came here as Sherlock’s handler. “What do you need me to tell people?”

The look Mycroft gives him is wondering, admiring, adoring. He strokes Greg’s cheek once more. “I was endeavouring to get Mrs Hudson to safety. The floor rather came down on us, but I was able to protect her.” He grimaces. “Of all the people…”

“Hey, you saved the little old lady. That’s good for street cred. Shame she’s the craziest one in London, and that’s an expert opinion right there.” He smiles, lopsided because it’s the best he can manage. “If I could tell the world, I’d be very proud of you.”

“Well, you can’t just yet, but I was quicker on my feet than I expected. And for once in her life, she listened to me.” He sighs and shoves his hands into his pockets. There are signs of the disaster, if Greg looks closely. Mycroft didn’t even have time to change before Greg found him, and for that he’s a little bit proud. “I dare say she’ll be a reliable witness as well. She has, after all, seen plenty of Sherlock’s more extreme antics over the years, and makes no secret of despising me.”

Greg chuckles. “She’s an idiot too. I think we all are.”

“Yes, quite probably.” He glances at the door, and Greg realises their brief oasis of calm is over. “I’ve briefed Anthea. She knows to notify you if… there is anything you need to be notified of.”

“And she’ll hold the front page until she’s got hold of me?” he asks, and it’s only half a joke.

Mycroft smiles. “Whilst Sherlock would certainly capture the front pages, I think I’d be lucky to make an inch on page four of the tabloids, although I may be afforded a decent quarter page in one or two of the broadsheets.” He tangles his fingers with Greg’s for just a moment, and it’s that that nearly breaks him all over again. “Not any time soon though, I think.”

“I’m counting on it.” He gestures over his shoulder at the door. “I’d better go and find Sally and my witness, start piecing together what the hell happened in there so the spooks don’t think I’ve been slacking when they take over my crime scene.”

He’s got his hand on the door handle before Mycroft speaks again. “Would you rather get your teeth into it, or have it taken off you before the paperwork begins to multiply?”

“Oh, the sooner the better. I have a feeling I’ll have more important things to do with my time soon.” He smiles back at him once more and then lets himself out onto the quiet hospital corridor. One way or another, life as he knows it will soon be over forever.


End file.
